How I Got These Scars
by MuffinRag
Summary: Okay so this is just like a background story I spastically came up with for the Joker because his character really fascinates me. It includes his childhood and I'm still working on it. There's some mild language. Other than that it's just a story of how a boy lost his mind.
1. Third Grade, First Term

In the third grade hall of Westman Elementary, a boy with long, wavy, thick black hair and honey-golden eyes leans his head back against the wall, listening to his teacher and mother in the classroom. There are chairs lined up next to the door but he chooses to sit on the floor, knowing that if he accidentally shifts while sitting on a wheeled chair it'll make a noise and alert the adults – but if he sits on the floor, he won't make a sound.

"Bit of a class clown," his teacher says. "A joker. Don't worry about it; he'll probably grow out of it by fifth grade. My real worry is his grades – he's dropped to the forty-seventh percentile."

"I'm sorry," his mother says. "Remind me what that means?"

"His grade average is forty-seven percent. Which is failing. I know Jack is a very bright young man, Mrs. Napier. I just don't understand why his scores don't show it."

Jack runs his hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face, thinking that his natural black hair is very dull. It also gives his unblemished Irish skin a sickly white look. Perhaps he should dye it. Blue would be nice, or maybe a natural brown. Or green? Green is a good color.

"He doesn't like to draw attention to himself," his mother says. "If he got very good grades, he'd stand out. He's shy, is all."

_I am not shy!_

"I understand entirely. My daughter has the same problem."

_I don't have a problem!_

His teacher continues, "But these low grades are making him stand out almost as much. If you could just speak with him. I know he can do the work; he just needs motivation. Perhaps you could offer him something. I don't know."

Jack glares at the floor. _Bribery isn't going to get you anywhere, Mrs. Erikson._

"I will talk to him, of course," his mother says. "Is there anything else you wanted to discuss with me?"

There's a pause. A brief hesitation that lasts almost too long.

"I discovered Jack's notebook the other day," Mrs. Erikson says, almost too quietly for Jack to hear. "He hasn't turned it in once since the beginning of the year."

_No! No, no no…_

"Some of the things he's written are somewhat disturbing. He hasn't done a single assignment I've asked, but he writes about the other students in the class, or about me. He doesn't seem to like any of us very much."

"Jack isn't fond of school," his mother says. "But I don't see why he should dislike the other students or you."

"Well, I'm sure it's just a phase," Mrs. Erikson says with false confidence. "He is a very clever kid. Very well liked by his peers, although I assume that's probably a result of him being – like I said before – the class clown. Everybody likes a joker, right?"

"Unless they have to discipline him," his mother replies, and the two of them laugh.

Chairs scrape across the floor as his mother and teacher exchange goodbyes. Jack stands up and trots down the hall a ways to the bathroom, then turns and begins walking towards the classroom as his mother comes out with his teacher. The two of them are still talking as he walks up.

"I will see you next term," his teacher says.

"Or sooner," his mother laughs, then glances down and sees him. "Hey, Jack. I've finished talking to your teacher. Shall we go home?"

"Yes," Jack says. "Let's go home."

Mrs. Erikson smiles down at him. "I'll see you on Monday, Jack."

He nods. "See you then."

His mother takes his hand and they walk out to the car. "Mrs. Erikson seems very nice," his mother says as she unlocks the doors.

"Yes."

"She seems to think that your grades are a bit low."

"What else could be expected of the class clown?" he asked, jumping into the passenger seat as his mother climbs into the driver's side.

She give him a look. "Eavesdropping, were we?"

He shrugs noncommittally.

"Just because you're a jokester doesn't mean you can fail third grade, honey. Can you at least get into the eightieth percentile?"

"I thought you didn't understand percentiles," he accuses.

She grins at him. "If you listen closely, Jack, things are very easy to understand. I didn't understand percentiles – at least not until today."

He laughs, then sighs. "Fine. I'll raise my grades a bit. But only if you stop calling me shy."

"What, aren't you?"

"No. I just don't like other people."

She give him a long look. "All right. Deal. I'll never call you shy again, and you'll get at least B's in school. Okay?"

"Okay."


	2. Fifth Grade, Second Term

"Good morning, class," Mr. Engelbright says as he walks into the classroom. "How are you all today?"

The tall, black-haired boy aims a tiny bow and arrow built out of toothpicks and twine at a girl across the classroom and shoots it as the class responds. The q-tip hits its mark and the girl shrieks in indignation, causing all the boys to laugh and all the girls' eyes to turn to Jack, who has already hidden the bow and is sitting, writing innocently in his notebook.

Mr. Engelbright sighs in a long-suffering way. "Let's start today with a riddle."

"Aren't you going to send him to detention?" the girl shrieks.

"There's no proof to say it was Jack, Sadie. I will not discuss this further." He turns to the board and writes down the riddle, leaving Sadie fuming in Jack's general direction.

After he's done writing, he caps the whiteboard marker and turns back to the class. "Today's riddle is this: three men walk into the exact same bar and order the exact same drink. Only one man dies. How is this? Yes or no questions only."

Jack's eyes flash up to the board and scan the riddle. Same bar. Same drink. "Were the drinks poisoned?"

"No."

"Did all the drinks have ice?"

"Yes…"

"Was the ice poisoned?"

"Give somebody else a chance, Jack."

Ignoring him blatantly, the boy says, "The two men who live drank quickly, while the man who died drank slowly, allowing the ice and therefore the poison to melt into his drink." Jack leans on the table and examines the words on the board. "But the story seems to be invalid anyway, since there is no apparent motive or organization to the crime. If the killer had wanted all three of them dead, he would have simply had the drinks poisoned, rather than going to the trouble of poisoning the ice."

Mr. Engelbright sighs. "Perhaps the killer thought it was a game, Jack. Sometimes people who kill don't need a reason other than that it's fun."

Running his fingers through his dark hair, the boy sits back, contemplating his teacher's response as the class moves on to the day's mathematics. Are there really people out there, Jack wonders, who kill because it's fun? They've got to have motive, haven't they? Perhaps they see it as experimental. Or that they're doing good for the world.

People wouldn't just kill for fun.

That's horrible.

Jack shudders and looks up at the board, dragging his mind away from killing and to math. He's got to learn this lesson if he wants to score a B in this class.

Six excruciating hours later, the bell rings, sending kids scrambling from the room. Jack packs his backpack as the area empties. As he's pulling it on, Mr. Engelbright calls, "Jack, come here. I'd like to talk to you."

Now it's Jack's turn to sigh. He closes his eyes briefly and walks over to his teacher.

"Yes, sir?"

"You shot Sadie Anderson this morning."

"It was just a q-tip. I'm certain that it didn't hurt her."

"I know it didn't hurt her. The point is not whether it hurt her, Jack. The point is that you shot a q-tip at her."

The boy groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Okay, what about it?"

"Your behavior is out of hand."

"I pay attention during class!"

"Jack, you can't go through life shooting q-tips at people and just paying attention when it's required. You're in fifth grade. You need to grow up."

"Why?"

"Because someday you're going to be an adult. You can't spend your whole life joking around. Life isn't a joke. You need to learn responsibility and you need to take responsibility for your childish actions. Even better, you need to stop being childish. This is the time when you train for adulthood and you need to take it seriously."

Jack takes a deep breath, gazing steadily at his teacher. "I honestly would rather not."

"Why?" his teacher pleads.

"Because if I did, I'd end up a down-to-earth, simple old man like you, with a boring job and a boring life. And I'd rather be on the street than stuck in a boring life."

Mr. Engelbright raises an eyebrow. "My life is hardly boring with people like you around."

The boy laughs and takes a step back. "I'm a joker, Mr. Engelbright. I always will be. I don't take life seriously, because too many people do. I think that there need to be people in the world who lighten it up. I've chosen to be one of those people, and I'm not sorry that I shot poor dear Sadie with a q-tip."

Mr. Engelbright massages his temples. "You shouldn't have."

"It was funny."

"You're right. It was. It doesn't mean it was right."

"I didn't hurt anybody."

"You hurt her pride."

"Q-tips don't hurt pride. Paradigms hurt pride. She hurt her own pride because she thought it was embarrassing to be shot with a q-tip. Girls are touchy. Not my fault."

With a helpless laugh, Mr. Engelbright gestures for him to leave. "Get out of here, Jack. You're going to miss the bus."

The boy smiles and bows with a flourish before turning and walking out of the room. He doesn't actually ride the bus, but Mr. Engelbright doesn't need to be told that. Jack is just glad he got out of there without detention.


	3. The Summer After Seventh Grade

"Do you ever miss dad, mom?"

She glances down at Jack, bemused. "I don't think about him much. I suppose that sometimes…" her eyes grow distant. "I miss what we could have been. A family." Sadness fills her face, then she blinks it away and smiles at Jack. "But I'm happy that it's just you and me. Your dad wasn't much of a man. It's better that he's gone."

He watches her hands as they shuffle the deck of cards over and over again. She sometimes does repetitive things like this when she's bored or nervous.

The bottom of the deck is facing him, and he watches the different cards as they appear: ace of hearts, four of spades, jack of diamonds, three of hearts, king of clubs, joker.

"Mom, what's the joker for?"

She glances down at the deck in mild surprise. "Is there a joker? I thought I'd taken both of them out." She removes the card and sets it aside, then resumes shuffling. "The joker is used in a lot of different ways. A lot of times it's a wild card. Sometimes it's the card that trumps all. In Old Maid it's to be avoided." She shrugs. "Most of the time it's removed from the deck. Since I'm playing solitaire…" With abrupt precision, she deals out the cards. "I take them out."

He grabs a deck of cards off the stack that his mother keeps on the corner of the coffee table. Quickly he shuffles, then goes through and removes the two Joker cards.

Curious, he examines them. They look like court jesters, which makes him wonder why they're called Jokers rather than Jesters. Probably something in the origin of card games? One has a fake red smile painted on. The other has blackened eyes. Both are wearing ridiculous hats.

He puts them in his pocket and deals for solitaire.

"Why don't you go hang out with your friends, Jack?" his mother asks, turning over a card.

"I don't have friends," he replies. "Just an audience."

She raises an eyebrow. "That's certainly one way to go through life."

He shrugs. "All the other kids ever want to talk about are girls and who's cheated on who and how boring their classes are. Small talk is dull. I'd rather have no friends than have shallow friends."

Her mouth twitches into a smile. "You can't just ignore them all your life."

He flips over a two of hearts and stacks it on the ace he'd found earlier. "Who says? I think I can, and I think I will. Normal people are boring."

"You need to find someone to balance you out." She pulls all her cards back into one stack. "That's the trick of life: balance. If you can do that, the rest falls into place. Now go outside," she says, brushing all his cards into a pile despite his protests. "You need fresh air. And who knows? Maybe you'll make a friend."

"Fine," he mutters.

He walks out and sits on the front porch. There's a group of kids his age walking down the street, laughing and whispering. Plotting.

"Jack!" calls one. "Come join us!"

"What for?"

"We're going to go prank old Mr. Freeman."

Jack's eyebrows pull together. "What, that grumpy man around the corner? Why?"

They all shrug. "Why not? It's summer, man. This is what summer's for, right? Come on!"

"I dunno…"

"Come on, dude, this is right up your alley. There's no harm in a bit of doorbell ditching!"

Jack glances back at his house, then jumps up and runs across the street. They laugh and clap him on the back, and he grins. "Okay, so, are we just doorbell ditching? Because that's sort of boring. Has anybody got some toilet paper?"

"I brought some!" squeals a girl.

"Good. I'll be in charge of the doorbell. I'll do it once. Then you guys toilet paper one of his trees or something. Then I'll do it again. Okay?"

They agree readily.

_People are so simple,_ he thinks, running up to the door. _So easy to order around. So easy to toy with._

He knocks loudly on Mr. Freeman's door and darts around the corner of the old man's house.

The window opens next to Jack. "I know you're there, Jack."

"Play along," Jack hisses.

"What're you going to do?"

"Scare them. You open the door, yell. I'm going to ditch your doorbell again in a minute. Leave the door slightly open and pretend to be dead."

The old man sniggers, then stomps to the door, throws it open, and yells, "Where are you, you stupid kids? I'm going to tell your parents about this! How dare you…" he breaks off into a hacking cough, and Jack sniggers. "Don't you come near my house again!"

The door slams shut, and the kids appear from behind the bushes and toilet paper a couple of his trees. Then they vanish.

Jack tiptoes out and rings the doorbell again, then scampers back to his hiding place. He waits for a long minute, then, when the door doesn't open, he creeps out and pushes the door open a little.

"Jack, what's going on?" calls someone.

Suddenly, Mr. Freeman grabs Jack by the collar and jerks him into the house. Jack slams the door shut behind him as the old man steps back, laughing.

"That'll scare the crap out of them," he says.

Jack laughs. "Even better than what I had in mind. But they're going to come investigate, so what should we do now?"

"Pretend to be dead."

"Both of us?"

"Sure. I think I've got some ketchup in the kitchen."

"Old man… I never quite know what to make of you."

Mr. Freeman just winks and limps away, leaning heavily on his cane.

As he's smearing ketchup his neck, Jack fishes the joker cards out of his pocket. Grinning, he shows them to Mr. Freeman. "We should stick these on our bodies. Just for kicks. It'll creep them out more."

The old man takes one and tucks it in his jacket pocket so it's sticking slightly out.

"Sometimes I get to thinking I'm too old for pranks," he says. "But then you come up to my door with that band of hooligans and I just can't stop myself."

Jack laughs and lies down on the floor. "Do I look dead?"

"Very," Mr. Freeman says, settling into his chair.

Not thirty seconds later, the door creaks open and one of the boys peeks in. When he sees Jack lying prone he screams and runs away. Jack bites the inside of his cheek and thinks 'dead puppies' over and over again as the rest of the kids crowd around and run away shrieking.

"I think they're gone," Mr. Freeman says after a few minutes of silence.

"You think they'll go to the police?"

"Certainly." The old man stands up and moves towards the kitchen. "Come on. Clean up, and I'll make tea."

"Don't forget to clean up yourself," Jack says with a laugh.

Exactly eight minutes and thirty-two seconds later, as Jack and Mr. Freeman settle down at the kitchen table with tea and biscuits, the door opens and a swarm of police flood in. Mr. Freeman sighs in exasperation and winks at Jack, who stifles a chuckle.

"We're in here," the old man calls.

The chief of police pokes his head in. "We'd been informed you were dead."

"Well, well, well. Either hell is unexpectedly like earth or somebody has been fabricating stories," Mr. Freeman says, adjusting the card that's still in his jacket pocket. Taking the subtle hint, Jack shifts so that the chief can see the card in his pocket, as well.

Gordan raises an eyebrow. "Well, isn't that interesting."

Jack shrugs. "We've just been having some tea and biscuits. Somebody's been making up stories." Swirling his tea around his cup, he adds, "I'd question Rick first. He's usually the ring leader."

With a roll of his eyes, the chief leaves. "Everybody out," he says. "False alarm."

As the door shuts, Mr. Freeman bursts into laughter.

Jack grins and takes a sip of tea.


	4. Eighth Grade, Fourth Term

Miss Bird, the soft-spoken, blue-eyed counselor, looks around the room. "Bruce, what would you like to be when you grow up?"

The dark-eyed boy shrugs nonchalantly. "Something with the police, maybe. Or a judge or something. I'd like a job where I could help bring justice and peace to the city – you know, stop criminals from running wild in the streets."

The boy next to Jack – Brendon, maybe? – snorts and leans over to Jack to whisper, "Just because his parents got shot…"

Jack turns his startling golden eyes on the other boy. "And what would you say if it had been you in his place?"

Taken aback, Brendon blinks and scoots away.

Miss Bird notices Jack talking. "And what about you, Jack? What do you want to be when you're older?"

The boy looks up at the counselor. She's very sweet, and she's always been kind to Jack, so he smiles a little at her as he replies: "I don't know either. I've an interest in engineering, but I've also been thinking about cosmetology. You know, make-up artist, hairdresser. Clothing would be fun, too…"

"Those are girl jobs, stupid!" calls a boy across the classroom.

Jack's jaw clenches.

Miss Bird looks at the other boy. "Derek, there's no such thing as a 'girl job' or a 'boy job,' and you'd do well to remember that."

Rosie's hand shoots into the air. "I know what I want to be, then!"

"What is that, Rosie?" Miss Bird says with a smile.

"I want to be an physicist . My mom always says that's a boy job, but I'm going to do it anyway. It sounds so interesting – you know, science and the Laws of Physics."

Miss Bird laughs. "That does sound like it would be fun. Now, class, I want each of you to come up and talk a little about what you like to do. That's what helps us choose what we want to do in life, right? The things we love to do will help define what our future career will be."

The class nods. Then, one by one, they walk up to the board and do their presentations that their teacher, Mr. Eccleston, had asked them to prepare a few weeks ago.

Finally, Jack's turn comes. He walks up, feeling nervous. He'd prepared his presentation about mostly 'girl jobs.' He knows he's going to get laughed at, which usually thrills him, but not this time.

He clicks into his PowerPoint and opens the first slide. For a brief minute he goes over hairdressing – different types of hair, different cuts, bits of trivia that interest him. Then he talks about makeup, including Halloween ideas and a little bit about makeup for movies and stages. Second to last, he talks about custom-style clothing and puts of photos of some of his sketches for suits and dresses and shoes.

At this point, even the boy who had insulted him earlier is listening. The clothing designs Jack had come up with are beautiful and stylish. Makeup is interesting.

It's like Miss Bird said: there are no 'boy jobs' and 'girl jobs.'

Finally, he goes over engineering and the different sections of that he'd be interesting in going into. Then he sits down quickly while the class applauds. Brendon leans over to him again.

"You should dye your hair, Jack," he says.

Jack looks at him. "Why?"

Brendon shrugs. "It'd be cool."

"Whatever."

As the day wears to a close, however, Jack keeps thinking about Brendon's suggestion. Jack had always wanted to dye his hair and never had because his mother hadn't wanted him to. But he's quite old enough to make decisions about his appearance now.

The question is, what color?

Natural? Or absurd? Or subtly strange?

He'd like his hair color to match his personality. He'd also like it to bring out a warmer tone in his skin, which remains white despite his attempts at tanning.

Auburn would probably be nice, but only if he cut it short. Of course, short hair is out of the question, so maybe he could go metallic gold?

That would be too hard to maintain.

The bell rings and he scrambles to throw things in his backpack. His mom is working at the grocery store, so he has to walk home. But if he hurries, he can get to the hair salon and home before she does. He'll surprise her.

He walks into the salon, still with no clear idea of what color he wants. When he sits down, and the hairdresser asks him what he'd like done, he says, "Well, probably a trim, since I haven't had one for a while. Just take off the ends. I'd also like to dye it – I'm not really sure what."

She starts wetting his hair to cut it. "Well, do you want to go natural?"

"Not really."

With a practiced eye, she examines him, taking in his eye color, and skin tone. "Do you want to go really wild, then, or more subtle?"

"Probably a little more subtle. My mom doesn't want me to dye my hair at all."

She laughs. "I see. In that case, I'd say a dark red or gold. Or… maybe green?"

"Why green?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. It seems like it would suit you."

He thinks this over as she trims around his ears and neck. Green would be cool. A dark green, of course. Almost brown. Subtle and yet…

"Yes, let's do green," he says.

She smiles. "I'll just finish up the trim, then, and we'll start dyeing."


	5. The Very End of Eighth Grade

"And the student body presidents for the freshmen class are… Sadie Starr and Derek West!" the principal announces with enthusiasm. The class surges up to congratulate Sadie on her win (Derek is in a different class.) Jack sits back in his chair and tests his miniature bow made out of toothpicks and twine with a small, sardonic smile on his face.

His eighth period teacher, Ms. Carr, walks over to his desk and looks down at him. "You aren't going to congratulate your classmate, Mr. Napier?"

He looks up at her, still smiling. "Why would I? She has never been anything but rude to me. Besides," he sets a q-tip into his bow, "everybody knew she'd win. She's the prettiest and most popular of the candidates. Ironically, she's also the least graceful when shot with a q-tip."

"Jack…" his teacher warns.

He winks at her, leaps onto his chair, and nails Sadie in the cheek with a q-tip. She shrieks and one of her stiletto heels slams into her boyfriend, Chase's, foot. Jack winces as pandemonium ensues.

"Well, that will put a damper on their relationship," he says, sitting back down.

His teacher gives him a look. "Will you never grow up?"

Carefully, he tucks his bow into its carrying case and slips that into his backpack. "Ms. Carr, I already have grown up. I decided I did not enjoy it, however, and reverted to my 'childish' behavior. Would you like to hear a joke?"

With a long-suffering sigh, she says, "Sure, why not."

He grins. "Sweet. I've got a great one: there were these two guys in a lunatic asylum, and one night…" he laughs. "One night they decide they don't want to live in an asylum anymore. They decide they're going to escape. So like, they get up onto the roof, and there, just across the narrow gap, they see the rooftops of the town stretching away in moon light… stretching away to freedom."

Ms. Carr raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"Wait for it, wait for it." Jack holds up one finger, still laughing. "Now the first guy jumps right across with no problem. But his friend, his friend daren't make the leap. Because he's afraid of falling, see… so then the first guy has an idea. He says, 'Hey! I have my flash light with me. I'll shine it across the gap between the buildings. You can walk across the beam.' But the second guy just shakes his head. He says…" Jack snorts with laughter, takes a deep breath, and continues, "he says, 'What do you think I am, crazy? You would turn it off when I was half way across.'"

Jack's teacher chuckles. "You're ridiculous, Jack, you know that?"

"That's what jokers are here for," the boy replies slyly, brushing his dark green hair back from his face. "To be ridiculous."

Ms. Carr walks away to try to calm the chaos. Jack's phone buzzes and he takes it out. He doesn't recognize the number, but he answers it anyway, keeping one eye on Ms. Carr just in case she turns and sees him with it.

"Hello?"

"Jack Napier?"

"The one and only."

There's a brief hesitation. "Mr. Napier, my name is Doctor Bennett. Your mother is in the hospital in critical condition."

Jack freezes, mouth half-open. The room is still in uproar around him – somebody ordered pizza and root beer, Sadie is nursing her pride while Chase nurses his foot. Ms. Carr has given up and is sitting at her desk with a book while the kids talk and laugh together. But all the noise fades into the background when Jack receives this news.

"… Mr. Napier?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, yes. What happened?"

There was a gas leak in the store where she was working. One of the employees lit up a cigarette in the locker room, and your mother was in there along with a few others. She's got some serious burns and internal bleeding. We're not sure she's going to pull through."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jack replies, "Thank you for calling."

"We'll call again when you can come visit her."

"Thank you."

The doctor hangs up. In a daze, Jack hits the end button, stands up, and slips his phone into his pocket. Without really knowing what he's doing, he moves through the crush of students towards the door.

Somebody grabs his shoulder. "Hey, Jack, cheer up," a voice says.

Jack looks up into the face of a smiling peer who he's known all his life, but whose name he cannot remember.

"It's a party, man. Lighten up. Have a slice of pizza."

Jack's eyebrows pull together. Cheer up? For a moment, Jack forgets that this person has no idea what's just happened - that Jack's life has just collapsed into a downward spiral. A flash of anger rises in Jack's chest and he hauls off and slugs the kid in the jaw.

Surprise flits across the boy's face as he's thrown backward into a group of teenagers, who shriek and stumble, dropping pizza and spilling root beer. Sadie looks up at Jack and anger registers in her cold brown eyes, while horror flashes across everybody else's faces.

"Jack!" cries Ms. Carr.

The boy takes a deep breath, feeling only relief and satisfaction at having punched somebody; at having taken his pain out on the world. In a small corner of his mind, he wonders if that's normal. If he's sane.

"What have you done?" Sadie shrieks. "It's like you're determined to ruin my life!"

"Did you seriously just punch him?" asks a boy.

"He punched Peyton!" gasps another girl.

Ms. Carr grabs him by the shoulder and flips him around. "Jack, what on earth were you thinking? You're coming to the office with me this instant."

Voices continue to mutter and chatter nervously behind him.

"Fine," Jack says.

A nurse comes out and asks him if he's Jack Napier. He confirms it and she gazes at him pityingly for a moment before leading him down the hall to a room. He nods his thanks to the nurse before stepping in and closing the door behind him.

"Hey, mom," he says quietly.

The heart monitor beeps softly in reply.

He takes a deep breath and walks around to sit in the chair beside the bed. Pain flashes across his honey-gold eyes as he gazes down at his mother.

"First dad, then you," he says quietly. "You're all I have left, mom. I don't know why dad left but…" he reaches out and takes her hand. Swallows hard. Composes himself.

"I punched a kid today. I don't really know why. I suppose it was probably shock – I'd just gotten the call about you, then he… he told me to cheer up. He didn't know about you, of course, but…" Jack sighs and closes his eyes against the sight of his mother's face, covered in white cloth. "Ms. Carr took me down to the office. The principal heard about you, so he's suspended me for the week. Told me to get some sleep." A cynical laugh escapes him. "Sleep. If you die, mom, I'll probably never sleep again."

He stands abruptly and paces across the room. Emotions bubble up in his chest – anger, pain, frustration. Life is so unfair.

Unfair.

Unfair.

"You don't deserve to die," he whispers. "You're too young, mom. Too pretty." A small laugh rises to his lips. "You're just too pretty to die, mom." He walks back over to her bed and puts his hands on the silver bar next to the mattress. Leans on it. Gazes at his mother.

His eyes close and he runs a hand through his dark green hair. She's not going to make it.

Just to be sure, he glances at the instruments and clipboards around her bed. Her injuries are severe, and he knows that she is exhausted. Working at the store, raising him, dealing with his teachers, and trying to balance out her life had exhausted her completely. She simply doesn't have the strength to bounce back.

He looks down at her again. Kisses her forehead.

"I love you, mom."

"I'm sorry for all the fights we had."

"I'm sorry for being so annoying."

"Thank you for being there for me, no matter what."

"I'm glad you ended up liking my green hair."

"Thank you for never calling me shy. I promise I'll keep getting good grades. I'll graduate high school, I will. Just like you want me to." He sighs. "I don't know what I'll do then, but I'll graduate."

"You don't have to worry about me, mom."

"I'll be fine."

_I'll_

_be_

_just_

_fine._


	6. The Summer Before Ninth Grade

"Is your father still alive?"

Jack shrugs. "He could be, for all I know."

The old lady peers at him from over her glasses. "You know nothing about his disappearance?"

"No."

"Okay. We'll see if we can find him. Tell me his name."

"Sebastian Jackson Napier." Jack tugs his wallet out of his pocket and extracts a photo. "This is what he looks like."

She accepts the photo. "Oh, you look just like him!"

Jack doesn't respond. His eyes are glazed over and he sways a little in his seat. He's exhausted, confused, and miserable. All he wants is to go home.

"You'll be staying with the Engelbright family until we can find you a more permanent residence," the old lady says. "Do you understand, Jack?"

He looks at her blankly. "I want to go home."

"I know, sweetie."

A police officer puts a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Come with me, son. I'll take you back to your place so you can pack your things."

Jack stands automatically and follows the officer out to the car. The drive passes in a blur, and then they're at Jack's old house. It's not much – just a dark grey box, really, with some brickwork and windows and a bronze roof. The garden has fallen into disrepair in the two weeks that his mom was in the hospital.

He swallows and walks up to the front door. Retrieves the spare key from the hollow behind the greeting sign. Opens the house and walks in.

Such normal things.

It's almost like his mom will walk in any second.

The officer stays outside. Jack walks up to the second floor, to his room, grabs a duffle bag from a storage closet behind his door, and begins mindlessly packing things. Shirts. Pants. Underwear. Socks. His pillow and two dozen notebooks filled with his scribbly handwriting.

He flops down on his bed after a few minutes and just lies there, gazing at the ceiling.

He's tired.

So tired.

His eyes close.

He dreams of falling.

Someone is shaking him. "Wake up, son. Come on."

His eyes flutter open and he looks up at the police officer with mild confusion.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Officer Bradley. I'm here to take you to the Engelbright's home. You're going to be staying with them, remember?"

Jack turns over and stares at the closet. "Tomorrow."

"What?"

"Leave me alone. I'm not going to leave this house until tomorrow."

The man hesitates, then walks away. Jack sighs in relief and closes his eyes again. It's good to be left alone for once to deal with the shock and the pain. He doesn't get why people think he wants them around. They just make everything four thousand six hundred and two times worse because he has to pretend to be sort of okay when really, all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and die.

Death would be

so

easy…

His eyes snap open and focus on the closet. He'd completely forgotten about his project after his mother had gotten hurt. But now maybe he could take comfort in the simple art of sewing…

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, walks over to the sliding double mirrors, and slides one side open.

There it is: a button-down blue shirt with a darker blue hexagon pattern, a forest green vest, purple pants pinstriped with white. Ridiculous clothes, he thinks, his mouth twitching up into a smile. Clothes fit for a clown. Or a joker, as his mother had often told him.

He takes the unfinished pieces out of the closet and lays them out. For a while he examines them critically, making mental adjustments. The pieces will come together nicely, but the outfit needs something else. Probably a tie, in paler green and yellow. If he's going to do yellow, though, he'll need to pull it through the rest of the outfit. Maybe socks? Maybe he could stitch up a coat and line it with yellow.

Or maybe the yellow could be that bit of chaos in the entire thing.

It definitely needs a coat, he decides as he picks up the pants. A long trench coat, in purple, with lots of hidden pockets and compartments.

The methodical pattern of sewing takes away his pain, and he works late into the night, cutting and stitching and measuring. It helps to concentrate on something other than the fact that his mother is dead.

Maybe sewing is women's work.

But then again, maybe it's not.

By midnight, he's finished the pants, vest, and shirt. The coat is half-done. And he falls asleep almost peacefully.


	7. Ninth Grade

New haircut, new style, new clothes, new life. Isn't that how most people start school each year? Or is that just what they hope? Because honestly, a lot of people don't change much. Not so far as Jack can tell.

He's changed, though.

Losing a parent will do that to you.

Since that night after his mother had died, when he'd stayed up late sewing his suit, he'd taken solace in sewing. By the time school starts, he has six new suits, all in the same color scheme, which allows him to mix and match pieces for almost endless varieties. Some of his clothes are a little more conservative than that first green and purple one, but most are a little insane. Each consists of a vest, jacket, gloves, socks, and shoes as well as the shirt and pants.

He doesn't wear the wilder suits to school. He figures that wouldn't be appreciated. But he creates them, because he finds peace in creating.

The first day of freshman year proves interesting. The staff seem wary; his peers avoid him.

They're probably just awkward.

Nobody knows how to treat a kid whose mother's died.

As he's walking to his first class, some kid runs into him. He give them an annoyed glare and they back away.

"Jesus, man, lighten up."

He ignores the comment and keeps walking. Slips into the class and scans the room. Just his luck: Derek, Chase, that kid whose name might be Brendon, a couple of girls he recognizes because of their constant scathing remarks directed at him – accomplices of Sadie's.

He sits as close to the door as possible.

The teacher walks in a few minutes later as the bell rings. As per the norm, the first thing she has them do is introduce themselves.

When it's Jack's turn, he stands up and mutters, "I'm Jack Napier," and sits down.

"Come on," the teacher urges. "Tell us something about yourself, Jack."

"Yeah, Jack," sniggers one of the girls. "Tell us."

"No," he replies flatly.

"Cheer up. It's only day one; you can't be this upset already."

He breathes in and lets it out slowly. "I'm not going to bother getting to know anyone in this class, so why should they get to know me?"

A mutter of surprise rises from the kids who know him.

"Usually he's such an attention whore…"

"Wonder if he's snapped?"

"Think he'll finally stop shooting people with that pathetic little q-tip bow?"

"I bet it's 'cuz his mum died…"

The teacher breaks into their murmuring. "Hush. Let's move on. Amelia?"

A pretty girl stands up. "Amelia Nightlock. I'd prefer not to go on about myself, either."

"I'm not asking you to go _on_ about yourself…"

"Oh dear, did I start a revolution?" Jack murmurs.

"Seriously, I don't know what's wrong with this class!" the teacher says. "You all need to lighten up a bit! It's school, not the end of the world."

"Could've fooled me," Amelia says, sitting down.

Jack half-smiles. This Amelia might be worth getting to know. The issue, of course, would be approaching her – he's not exactly skilled with talking to womenfolk. They could be a different species for all he knows.

The school year putts on slowly. Around midterm, a joke catches on: tell Jack Napier to cheer up. Tell Jack to smile. Tell Jack to lighten up. Oh, that's a funny one, isn't it? Jack, the one who used to be the class clown, and now everybody else is trying to get _him_ to laugh.

He tells himself it'll go away, but it doesn't.

And it doesn't.

Just when he think it might have gone away, it comes back.

"Cheer up, Jack."

"Stop being so gloomy, Jack."

"Jack, you should smile more often."

"Lighten up, Jack."

"The world isn't _that_ horrible, Jack."

"Come on, Jack, smile for once."

"Smile, Jack."

Smile.

Smile.

_Smile_

_Jack_

_why_

_won't_

_you_

_just_

_smile?_


	8. Tenth Grade, Third Term

"Did you ever just want to kill somebody?" Jack asks, staring down at the orange flowers in his hands. "Just take a knife and rip it across their throat?"

His eyes flicker up to the gravestone. "It's not really that bad. It's not like I'm going to turn into a serial killer or anything. Sometimes I just wish I didn't have to deal with certain people, you know?"

With a sigh, he sets down the flowers and begins arranging them.

"The Engelbrights are nice. They don't seem to mind having me in their home. The agency still hasn't found anything on dad, so it looks like I'll be staying with them for a while." His eyebrows pull together a little. "I wish you'd told me more about dad, you know. I know you didn't like him much because he left you but… if I knew more it would make this easier. Maybe I'd have somebody I'm related to that I could… you know. Live with."

The flowers arranged, he lays down on the grass and stares up at the trees and the fiercely blue sky. He's wearing all black, except his vest, which is vibrant orange to match the flowers. Orange was his mother's favorite color.

"I don't know if I can finish high school, mom."

He closes his eyes briefly.

"There are just so many people there. So many liars and hypocrites. People who deserve nothing and get everything. Like Sadie. Sadie is popular and pretty and rich and she has so many friends and she's got all this power in the school. Everybody thinks she's so wonderful. Everybody looks up to her. But… she hates me, which means that all her minions hate me. I… I just don't want to have to deal with constantly being picked on, you know? Teased because I dye my hair green or wear suits every day or because I shoot q-tips at people…"

He trails off, watching a flock of birds cross the sky.

Why can't life be simple?

"I think the world admires the wrong people. The people with pretty faces get admired and idolized, while the good people get ignored or downgraded or… I don't know. I just don't know, mom. The world doesn't make sense, and it isn't fair."

Footsteps approach and he closes his eyes, relaxing, waiting for whoever it is to pass by. As the sound of shoe on pavement retreats, he opens his eyes again.

"Is it nice, being dead?"

He pauses, waits for an answer.

"Sometimes," he laughs, "sometimes I half-expect you to respond." He rolls over and gazes at the flowers. "Do you think I'm crazy, mom? Because sometimes I feel crazy. I feel useless. I feel chaotic… like I'm falling apart. And the only way I stay put together is to wear stylish clothes to school. Like I can pretend I'm as put together on the inside as I look on the outside."

Heat beats down on his back, even though he's in the shade. He picks idly at the thick grass that's appeared over his mother's grave in the past year.

"I think you felt like that a lot near the end."

Lost?

Tired?

Hopeless?

"Chaotic. Like life has just suddenly become too much, and you just have to go on pretending because that's what people do." He looks up at her name, chiseled into the smooth, dark grey stone. "I wonder what I would turn into if I stopped pretending."

"A homicidal maniac, probably."

Jack's eyes shoot wide open and he scrambles into a sitting position with his back pressed against the gravestone. For a moment, he and Amelia just freeze there, staring at each other – Amelia somewhat awkward, Jack startled. Then he forces himself to stop hyperventilating.

"You snuck up on me."

"I've been told I'm quiet on my feet."

He unclenches his hands from the grass and uses the gravestone to pull himself to his feet. "Not many people can sneak up on me."

"Why?" she asks, walking a little closer. "Because you have fantastic hearing?"

"No. Because I listen for them."

She smiles and runs her hand over the top of the dark grey marble. "See, that's why I think you'd be a homicidal maniac. Because you're suspicious. You don't trust anybody. And I can sense it, just beneath your skin…" she touches his chest with one finger. "Chaos."

"And what would you be?"

"What, if I stopped pretending?" she smiles and sighs. "I'd probably be in the same boat as you."

He tips his head a little, watching her. "Maybe we should be friends."

"Wouldn't that be something!" she laughs. "A couple of homicidal maniacs. We could commit all our crimes together. It would be very exciting."

They stand together in silence for a few minutes, then he asks her why she's here. Her face falls, her hand tightens on the top of his mother's gravestone, and she glances across the cemetery. He nods.

"Of course."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude…"

"It's fine if you'd rather not discuss it. We all have our secrets."

She smiles up at him and he can see her consciously relax her body. "It's nothing, really. My father and mother. I'm no worse off than you are."

He cocks his head. "But there's something else."

Her gaze grows distant. "My father… he was a killer. He murdered a lot of people. Destroyed a lot of lives. He got the electric chair in the end, and they cremated him. Nothing left to bury, not that it mattered. He didn't care about us. His final, crowning act was to ruin us – my mother and me, that is. He destroyed my mother's life and sent her jumping off a building. He left me to deal with distrust and foster families." She swallows hard. "You want to know what his last words for me were? 'You'll never escape their suspicion, sweetheart. That's what drove me over and it's what'll send you tumbling after me. So I'll see you in hell.'"

Jack looks down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Amelia. That's horrible."

"The funny thing is, I know he loved me," she says, voice breaking. "I always knew. He would never hurt me, never speak unkindly to me. He was there for me when I needed him. At least until I knew what he was. But even his final words – he's sorry for what he's done. He's angry with the system and he's angry that it will destroy me. But he loves me. Always did."

"I can't decide if that's a bad thing or a good thing."

She looks up at Jack and for a moment, helplessness flashes across her eyes. "Me neither."

He ducks his head. "I'm sorry for your pain."

"And I am sorry for yours." She leans back on the gravestone. "Do they still tell you to smile? You know, in school… the old joke."

"They never stop, really. It's the stupidest thing."

"If you smiled they'd probably stop. Honestly, I think they miss the old you. The jeans-and-t-shirt, instant comedy Jack Napier." She breathes deeply of the evening air. "They miss the class clown, and they just want something to laugh at again. Know what I mean?"

He nods. "Yeah. I just don't feel like being that something, and I wish they'd leave me alone about it."

"I understand."

She's staring off into the dark sky, away from the setting sun. He looks down at her – her long, thick, auburn hair; her beautifully defined jaw; the line of her nose; the green of her eyes. And he smiles just a little bit.

"Thank you."


	9. Eleventh Grade, Fourth Term

The noise in the commons is nearly deafening. Jack pushes through the crowd, searching for Amelia.

She sneaks up behind him and grabs him around the waist. He turns around, smiling, and kisses her forehead. "You surprised me."

"That was my intent."

"Isn't it always?" He asks with a small smile. She stands up on her tiptoes and kisses him once, softly, on the lips, then pulls back. He puts a finger under her chin and examines her face. "You look exhausted. How late…"

A gunshot shatters through the sound and cuts off his words. The crowd surges and panics. Amelia shrieks and he holds her close, looking up to see where the shot had come from.

The gunman is standing just inside the doors of the school, laughing. With careless ease, he cocks the gun and shoots a nearby police officer.

Jack tugs at Amelia's arm, eyes locked on the gunman. "Amelia, come on. We've got to get out of here."

"Jack…" Her breath comes sharp and fast. She's hyperventilating. "Jack, he has a gun!"

Jack tugs on her arms, trying to pull her away from the killer. Most of the crowd has disappeared into various hallways, but Amelia is frozen to the spot. Eyes glowing with malevolence find her, and shift to Jack's face.

"Did you know that sometimes, when confronted with death, sometimes prey will freeze rather than run?" the man asks. He walks up to Jack, staring directly into his eyes, and presses the muzzle of the gun against Amelia's head.

The man's voice rises. "If you move, I will kill her."

Jack glances around and sees about six police officers standing around, pointing their guns at the man.

"Tell me your name," he says, examining Jack with eyes that burn with insanity.

"Jack," the boy replies tightly.

A smile splits the killer's face. "Hello, Jack. I'm Chance."

For a long moment, there is no sound but Amelia's breathing.

"Tell me her name."

"Amelia," Jack says.

"Amelia. Pretty name. Pretty girl. Tell you what, Amelia. If you run away, I won't shoot you or your boyfriend. I'll let the both of you get away. How's that?"

Jack looks down at her. "Amelia, run."

"I… I can't…" she gasps, verging on sobs.

Chance smiles. "See what I mean? When confronted with death, prey will sometimes freeze, even if they have the chance to escape."

Panicking, Jack pushes at Amelia, but she won't move. Her breath is short and hard; her pupils dilated impossibly wide. She's in shock. Fear, hot and sharp, bubbles up in Jack's chest, and he meets the killer's eyes.

"Why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Chance sighs. "I'm not really sure, you know. I'm just sick of the world and its lies and I'm too cowardly to commit suicide, so I'm going to let other people do it for me." He leans closer to Jack, eyes sparking with madness. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"Hardly."

Suddenly, Chance's finger tightens. Amelia jerks in Jack's arms, then slumps. He falls to his knees beside her, barely aware of the gun that is now pointed at his own head. His voice is shocked away, and he mouths Amelia's name over and over. Desperately, he takes her head in his hands and gazes into her lifeless eyes. Blood trickles onto his white gloves from the hole in her head. Agony wells up in his chest and he closes her eyes with blood-spattered, gloved fingers. For a long moment, he just sits there, holding her to his chest, not caring that the blood is getting all over his white vest. All he can think is that she's dead. His love, his only friend, his strength… is gone.

"Amelia," he whispers, and his voice breaks. "Amelia…"

"Oh no," says Chance. "Did I kill your precious dove?"

Before he knows what he's doing, Jack is upright, wrenching the man's gun out of his hand. Without thinking, he points it at the killer. "How dare you," he says. "How dare you murder her."

The man raises his hands and shrugs.

Jack snarls. "I hope you burn in hell."

"I'll see you there," Chance replies, and laughs. Jack pulls the trigger, abruptly cutting off the maniacal laughter, sending the man staggering backwards until he collapses onto the cold tile floor. Blood wells from the hole in his forehead, runs down into his eye, across his cheek and onto the grey floor.

The police run forward, surrounding the dead man and Jack. Two of them grab his arms and cold metal snaps around his wrists.

Laughter bubbles up in Jack's chest, and he doesn't stop it. As the police drag him past the dead man, he tugs a Joker card out of his sleeve and drops on Chance's chest. "Hell it is!" he says, still laughing. "We are all going to hell!"


	10. The Summer After Eleventh Grade

Jack walks back into his old house and looks around with mild curiosity. He hadn't come back to this place since that last night, but it seems appropriate to come back here, to where his life began, to end it.

He closes his eyes and the voices come back.

_Just do it. Just kill yourself._

_Look at you, so pathetic and useless that you're going to end your life._

_They've seen through your cover._

_They know._

_Just kill yourself already._

_They know all about you now. They know you're crazy. You may as well just give in._

_Smile, Jack._

_Smile…_

A scream rips from his throat and he smashes his hands into his mirror. It shatters around him, littering his purple coat with sparkling pieces of glass.

He takes a deep breath and picks up a shard of glass.

_Smile, Jack._

For a moment, he stares at the fragmented reflection of his honey-gold eyes in the piece of mirror.

_Just smile._

_Why won't you smile?_

_Smile._

_ ._

_Smile._

_ ._

_ ._

_Smile._

_ ._

Anger and pain floods up in his chest, and the voices start chattering faster, telling him how worthless he is. Telling how worthless love is. How worthless the world is.

_There's no point to trying anymore, Jack._

_No point to pretending._

_ ._

_Smile, Jack._

_ ._

_Laugh it off. The world is just as insane as you are._

_ ._

Slowly, he lifts the shard of glass. Opens his mouth wide and presses the sharp edge against the corner of his mouth.

_There you go, Jack. Just smile._

_It's not so hard._

_ ._

_Just…_

_ ._

_ ._

_ ._

_smile._

_*_scene change_*_

A steady beeping wakes Jack up. His eyes flutter open. There is whiteness all around him. It makes him sick. There should be no white in the world. It should all be blackness, darkness, pain…

"You're up! That's wonderful," says a cheery, female voice.

His entire chest contracts with anger and frustration and he sits up. Opens his lips to speak. When he tries, the action pulls on stitches at the corners of his mouth, and he gasps in pain.

"Don't talk, honey. You'll pull the stitches. Just lay back, okay? Relax. You've been in the hospital for about twelve hours, ever since you were found last night. Lucky that somebody heard your screaming and called the police, otherwise you might have bled to death."

"I shouldn't have screamed," he mutters, careful to not open his mouth too far.

The nurse blinks. "Oh… well. If you get hungry, press the button beside your bed."

She walks out and closes the door behind her. He sits perfectly still for a moment, then reaches up and touches his face.

The skin is rippled and swollen. He can feel the thread of the stitches, woven through his skin, forcing it to grow back together. Without even seeing it, he knows it won't be pretty. But that's fine.

He stands up and jerks the IV out of his arm. The hospital gown doesn't exactly provide excellent coverage, but luckily his coat is hanging on a chair nearby. He picks it up and examines it – the collar and back is bloodied. There are holes in the fabric. That had probably happened when he'd fallen – the shattered glass must have punctured his coat. Probably his skin, too. Now that he thinks about it, his back is throbbing and burning.

He tugs the coat on, wincing at the pain in his back, and walks out of the room and down the hall until he finds a bathroom.

At the door, he pauses, wondering if he even wants to see how horrible his face looks. Then he shoves it open and walks in.

The picture in the mirror startles him.

His cheeks are swollen, red, and lumpy where the stitches hold them together. The rest of his face is covered in small scratches and cuts. He's deathly pale, except for the horrific red of his torn skin, and the black circles around eyes – he looks like he hasn't slept in six weeks.

He pulls off his coat and gown and drops them on the ground. Cold air drifts across his body as he examines himself. His skin, which has been near flawless white for his entire life excepting the occasional bout of acne, is marred with red cuts and scrapes. He has some stitches in his back where the glass must have punctured his skin.

Automatically, he reaches up and brushes his green hair out of his eyes. It's growing back in dark at the roots. He hasn't had it re-dyed for probably two months.

Another patient who's about Jack's age walks into the bathroom, pauses in surprise, then examines him with a raised eyebrow. "You look like hell, man."

"Fitting, since that's where I'm going." Jack picks up the gown off the floor and slips it back on, and pulls the purple coat over the top. "You don't exactly look like sunshine and daisies yourself."

The guy shrugs. "Attempted suicide will do that to you."

"Yeah?" Jack leans against the sink. "Why'd you try?"

"Boyfriend was killed in the shooting at the school. He's the only person who ever loved me, and when he was gone…" Another shrug. "Life just didn't seem to be worth living anymore."

Jack nods slowly, and the laughter that's been building in his chest starts to tumble out. "Was life ever worth living in the first place?"

"It's not exactly something to laugh about."

"Isn't it, though?" Jack asks. "Don't you find it funny? All the struggling, the pain, the pointlessness. People puttering along, pretending… pretending that there's some _point_ to it all. It's just a joke. It's all just a horrific, black, god-awful joke of nature."

The man takes a step back. "Are you insane?"

The laughter bursts out, and Jack is helpless to stop it. "You know what? I think I am! I think… I think I'm crazy. I think I've always been crazy, underneath all the lies and the pretense and the acting." A stitch at the corner of his mouth snaps, and he hisses in pain. His jaw tightens, and he closes his eyes, feeling the pain, absorbing the pain… his chest starts shaking with laughter.

The other man runs out of the bathroom, and Jack just sits there, laughing at the world and at the pain.


End file.
